The Pretender
by gothangelic
Summary: Roxanne stumbles upon a haunt of Megamind's. She's not quite sure what to make of it.  Just a blurb right now.
1. Chapter 1

NOT BETA'D. All my fault.

Just a blurb for now. Muse attacked me at work, and this is what happened. The songs running around were, in no particular order, as follows:

Audioslave - Doesn't Remind Me  
>Corey Taylor - Bother<br>Incubus - I Miss You  
>Pearl Jam - Yellow Ledbetter<br>Foo Fighters - Everlong

Let me just say: Damn my villianphilia. Live it, love it.

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><p>The echoing Union Hall of Metro City College had always been one of her favourite places to come and study when Roxanne had still been a student. She couldn't resist the nostalgia of a visit after giving a speech to a lecture hall full of students as a favor to one of the professors that she had studied under. Everything had gone swimmingly, despite a portion of question session when one of the spunkier students had asked the expected: "Are you dating Metro Man?" She had grinned and taken the hit on the chin without actually giving the young man the answer he was looking for. "And this is what's referred to as deflecting," she had replied, raising an eyebrow and moving on to the next student.<p>

She shook her head, a secret smile spreading. After all, neither she, nor Metro Man, Wayne Clark, had ever confirmed or outright denied anything, brushing it off as part of their personal lives. There was a lengthy discussion once upon a time between hero and reporter, ultimately deciding that she would be his cover until such a time as the truth actually was revealed.

And the truth was that Wayne Clark was as queer as a copper sickle. She'd known it back in high school when they first met. She knew it now. And her love life was poorer for it. She couldn't regret it, though.

A grimace started to form, and she pushed it away, letting her face go slack and smooth. She felt the tension in her forehead loosen, and the beginning of a headache fell away like water into a bay.

Roxanne walked on, surprised to see a coffee shoppe set up in the far back corner of the basement hall, complete with a slightly raised platform that was home to a spindly mic stand, an obviously-ill-appropriated music stand, and a lone stool. Open mic night, apparently, she thought as a petite blond girl with coke bottle glasses and pigtails took the stage, and the overhead lights brightened slightly, giving a spotlight effect.

Deciding that a bucket of coffee was just the thing that she needed before the time came for her to go home, Roxanne ducked into the half-full cafe. The coffee shoppe's 32-ounce cup ordered and delivered, she took a table off to stage right, sitting sideways on the chair. One arm rested on the back of the chair, the other on the table beside her, and her back comfortably positioned against the pleasantly scratchy brick wall, she settled in to listen to the performer.

The girl told the tale of the Nightingale and the Rose brilliantly, and Roxanne found herself utterly captivated, just as she was when she first heard the story. The girl seemed to have tears in her eyes at the tale's crescendo as she spoke.

"So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain," she growled, "and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb."

Roxanne, from her vantage point, glimpsed two figures across the room, settling gingerly at another table. One of them had to be a football player for the Metro City team. He was absolutely huge. Tousled sandy blond hair fell curling into his wide brown eyes, and he held himself like he knew he was destructive. The big man was whispering something frantically to his companion, a man that couldn't have looked more different if he tried. He was dark to the big man's light, and rail thin where the blond was muscled like Metro Man.

The dark man said something back at his companion, his face hardening briefly, eyes narrowing. Turmoil was etched on his sharply-featured face. The blond seemed to back down, leaning carefully back in his chair.

Roxanne took a moment to study the smaller man. His dark-wash jeans falling neatly over touchably-soft leather boots which rose just barely to his ankle, she saw as his legs crossed when he stretched out. He had layered his shirts, a long-sleeved black tee under a vintage Rolling Stones tour shirt, probably to hide the fact that he was still painfully-thin looking. Partially hidden behind him was a guitar in a black plush carry bag.

The performer on stage bowed out graciously after the story's bitter end to modest applause. She had really done well, Roxanne thought before her attention was drawn back to the man with the guitar. He stood up gracefully, casting a glance around to see if someone else had dibs on the stage before heading up. His companion remained at the table, fidgeting nervously as he looked about.

The big man's wide brown eyes settled on her, and, impossibly, got bigger. His face went slack in shock, jaw dropping, and he looked back up at his friend, who had already taken the stage.

Figuring that she'd been found out by someone that recognized her for her reporting, she smiled a bit, giving a half-hearted wave, then turned her attention to the stage where the thin man was unpacking the guitar.

Her eyebrows crept up toward her hairline when the guitar he brought out was a Gibson J-45 with a Sunburst finish. The thin man didn't bother with an introduction, and completely ignored his friend at the table who was frantically trying to get his attention. He launched into a song she recognized as something by Audioslave.

And he was good. Quite good. Amazing, even. By the third song, he'd gained standing ovations, and everyone who knew the songs was singing along. The little coffee shoppe was filling up quickly, which was surprising, considering his choice of music. All the songs were somber, on the verge of being sad, but the emotion he was putting behind them was genuine, and the earthy baritone held such resonance that she felt like she could touch it.

He finished the closing chords of a song by Incubus, and stood, holding the beautiful guitar to him like a safety blanket. He blinked slowly as if he were coming out of a trance, and Roxanne saw that his eyes were a startling, unearthly green.

"Thank you," he said, softly, uncertainly, into the microphone, acknowledging the applause, then quickly packed up his guitar and headed toward the table where his friend was still planted.

The chatter in the coffee shoppe had grown exponentially, so Roxanne couldn't hear the obviously heated words being exchanged by the man and his friend. There was no way she was letting them get away without a word, at least one of appreciation.

And so she got up with intent, her half-empty bucket of coffee held in one hand, her bag slung crosswise across her body. The thin man's face shot up from his friend, staring her directly in the eye. Then they bolted.


	2. Chapter 2

NOT BETA'D. All my fault.  
>Still just a blurb.<p>

* * *

><p>Roxanne blinked as the pair took flight, the door looking like it wanted to break off it's hinges in their wake. Well, she thought, wondering if there was something on her face, she'd never gotten that reaction before.<p>

A slow confused blink later, she noticed that the dark man had left his guitar case behind in the fray. Quickly gathering her things, she went over, gently pushing through the throng of students to pick up the forgotten instrument. She peered out the cafe doors and down the hallway just in time to see the last of the dark man's blond friend disappear up a staircase at the other end of the cafeteria section's hallway. Roxanne's lip curled in a grimace as she took off after them, thanking herself for having worn sensible flats and slacks today rather than her usual and customary pencil skirt and heels, the guitar case held carefully in one hand, the coffee gripped in the other.

"Wait!" she called as she bounded up the stairs and burst through the heavy double doors and out into an open courtyard, trying her best to balance.

"Go!" she heard hissed, and turned toward the voice, spotting her quarry halfway through a fountain. She aimed toward them, waving the hand with the cup..

"You forgot your-" she was cut off by the rushing noise of water from the fountain as the clock on campus struck the hour. One last flash of the dark man's green eyes, then, they were gone, leaving Roxanne on the other side of rushing waters, looking lost and holding a guitar that wasn't hers.

Dejected after searching futilely for another few minutes, she trudged her way back to the cafe in the basement of the Union Hall. The roar of a phantom engine went unnoticed as it passed her, the face that pressed up against the glass inside watching raptly as the girl of his dreams, looking, herself, sad and lost, was left behind them. His vehement swear echoed in the interior of the car, startling his driver. She had his guitar.

Roxanne dodged the student traffic as she stepped back up to the counter at the basement cafe, getting the barista's attention.

"Refill?" he asked, eyeing her still-mostly-full cup.

"No, thanks; I think this will do it for me," she replied. And then some, she thought. "I was wondering if you know the man who played the guitar on stage a bit ago."

"Yeah. Well. No," the shaggy barista said. "I know that he comes in here to play on open mic night, but I don't know who he is. I think he's a local."

"We call him Six," piped up another barista working the register. "He always gets a six-shot espresso drink that's about half sugar. I don't know how he hasn't had a heart attack. But he always pays cash, so I don't know his name."

The shaggy barista nodded, agreeing. "He's not here all the time, either. Like, he'll be here every day for a week or two, and play every open mic, then he'll disappear for weeks on end."

"Thanks. I really just want to get this back to him," Roxanne said gesturing at the guitar she held slung across her back.

"Probably best you don't leave it here, then. Wandering hands and all. That guitar would be gone in a heartbeat. Want to leave your number and name? We'll give it to him if he comes looking."

"Sure, that'd be perfect." Roxanne pulled a notebook out of her purse, scrawling her name and number on it. After a second's hesitation, she left a note as well. With a grin and a nod, she gave the folded paper to the barista. He took it with a smile and wished her a pleasant evening. She snuck a ten into the tip jar, and ducked out of the cafe.

Roxanne took her time going back to her car, strolling past the library, remembering fondly the hours she'd spent within as a student herself. The students within were buried in their own studies, bringing a smile to her face. She stumbled across a group playing Dungeons and Dragons on the lawn out in front of the library doors, arguing amongst themselves if a move was legal or not.

The parking garage loomed, reminding her that her trip down memory lane was nearly at its end. She fished the keys out of her purse, shifting the guitar against her back to do so. Her old Beamer started without a hitch, and the ride home was uneventful, except for the lingering sense of awed confusion.

Metro Man, Wayne Clark, was waiting for her on her balcony when she arrived at her apartment. His face lit up in a broad smile as she gave him a little wave as she kicked off her shoes by the door, setting the guitar case on the kitchen table, and went to let him in.

"Good evening, good sir," she said playfully as she unlocked the doors to the balcony and he came in. Clad in street clothes, a ragged pair of stone-washed jeans over a pair of worn sneakers, and a t-shirt that couldn't help but be tight over his broad chest and shoulders, he caught her in a half-hug, dropping an affectionate kiss on her hair.

"Hey, Roxie. I didn't know you played," he said, gesturing at the guitar case in the kitchen.  
>"Actually, I did back in school; Dad taught me. But I haven't picked up a guitar in years."<p>

"What's with this, then?"

"It's not mine. Some student left it in a cafe after an awesome performance," she explained, unzipping the fabric to show him. His eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle.

"That's quite a piece," he said, running his fingertips over the lighter part of the spruce face. "You said someone left it behind?"

"Yeah. The kid saw me and actually ran away. I was just going to tell him that I enjoyed his playing, and he took off." She raised a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I left my number at the counter. I hope he claims it."

"Well, if he doesn't, you know where to find me," he said, eyeing the Gibson enviously. "I actually don't have one like this yet, and they're supposed to play like a dream."

"Go get one, then," she suggested as he dropped heavily onto her couch, tossing a look over his broad shoulder.

"Nah, I haven't earned it yet," he said somewhat self-deprecatingly. "I'm still firmly in the amateur stage of my hobby."

"Don't worry about it, Wayne. You're bound to get better with practice. You want something to drink?" she offered, taking a peek in her fridge. "I have a six-pack in here with our names on it," Roxanne said, dangling the six-pack from her fingertips temptingly.

"That sounds like a plan. You're the best not-girlfriend ever, Roxie," he said as she handed him a bottle, setting the carton on the coffee table as he kicked his shoes off and put his feet up.

"You're not too shabby at being my not-boyfriend either," she called out behind her, going into her bedroom to change. He popped his beer bottle open with a thumb, catching the top and tossing it into the carton. A few minutes later, she emerged in soft black cotton yoga pants and a pale pink camisole top, running a hand through her short hair.

Climbing over the back of the couch, she grabbed a beer from the carton on the coffee table. She tucked herself into the opposite corner, leaning against the armrest as she popped the lid off with her keys expertly, then glanced back up at him. "Everything okay? You seem kinda down in the dumps."  
>"I don't know. It's probably nothing. Maybe I'm just overreacting."<p>

"What?" she asked, leaning forward, concerned. It wasn't often that Wayne encountered a problem that was too weighty for even him to carry. "Maybe I've hit an early midlife crisis," he said, gesturing to his hair, gone salt and pepper at his temples. "It's kinda starting to get to me, actually."

"Your gray hair? You've been gray since you turned twenty-five," she said logically. She'd actually been the one to purchase the hair dye when he found the first one. There had been alcohol and b-movies involved in that evening.

"No, no. Not the hair. I'm actually kind of growing to like it. Although I'm sure it was the cause of me going prematurely gray. It's the hero gig. The whole kit and caboodle." He took a swig of beer, leaning back with a sigh that rustled the papers on the computer workstation across the room. She looked at him consideringly.

"They're opening the museum next week, aren't they," she realized.

"It's a freaking shrine, Roxie. It may as well be a golden calf," he said on a dejected breath.

"Honestly, Wayne, I'm surprised it took this long for you to reach this point. But I always have had far less patience with social expectations." She reached over, laying a hand on his shoulder. His hand came up to cover hers, and she marveled once again at the blatant difference in size between them.

"It's not like I can just quit, though."

"Maybe you can leave a note with the mayor's office or something. But you need some time off. Even you are subject to stress, superhero."

"Maybe you're right. The next time I drop Blue Boy off in prison, I'll head out to Cabo or something and spend a couple days wining and dining. Sand and sun. Maybe I'll hook up with the pool boy."

"That sounds like a plan to me," she said, offering up her beer to klink with his.

She missed the trepidation in his smile when he touched the neck of his beer to hers.


	3. Chapter 3

Writing at a whim. Decided that these are going to form in between scenes and around the movie itself. Ja.

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><p>"Sir, are you going to be okay?" Minion hedged as his master swore yet again in the passenger seat of the invisible Hudson. He'd already lain off trying to tell his friend that he'd done an amazing job at enthralling the masses. They had torn out of the parking lot, scaring the wits out of a hapless student with his nose buried in a book passing by. Megamind was slumped in the seat, his seat belt left purposely undone (evil does NOT wear seatbelts), and appeared to be relieved. Until they passed Miss Ritchie. Then the cursing began.<p>

"I cannot believe the Guitar of Supreme Tyranny has fallen into the hands of Roxanne Ritchie," he said, dejected, his forehead leaning against the window. "I'll never see it again, Minion!"

"You'll get it back, Sir. Actually, it looked like she was trying to give it back to you. Maybe she'll leave it with the people at the cafe?"

Megamind brightened at that. "Yes, that does seem like something that she would do, the goody-goody. I'll have to wait until later tonight to go back for it. I don't want to risk her still hanging around when I'm there."

"What time were you thinking? Do I have time to start the laundry?"

"I'll go, Minion. I'm the one who allowed her to get her hands on it in the first place. Nosy little reporter... " he huffed. "How did she know that I would be there in the first place?" he wondered.

"Sir, I doubt that she knew it was you," Minion pointed out logically. "The disguises were flawless. There's no way she knew it was either of us, come to that."

"Thank darkness for that, at least," he muttered, pondering. "I can't imagine what it would have been like if she knew precisely what genius was playing tonight. Ah, well. Onward to Evil Lair, my Minion."  
>Close to midnight found Megamind sneaking stealthily through campus, the hover bike parked invisibly just around the corner. Down the stairs into the Union Hall's basement where the cafe was located, he clung to the shadows, walking swiftly and silently through the hallway. The disguise generator gave him the extra protection of anonymity, and warped the picture on any security cameras that may have caught his image.<p>

Minion, he knew, would try to read him the riot act once he got back. He hadn't told the icthyoid that he was leaving. Minion could be a very mothering nannyfish, Megamind thought as he pulled a small kit of tools out of a pouch on his belt.

The inferior lock was swiftly picked, and he was in, closing the door silently behind him. The foreign feeling of stillness in a normally bustling place he encountered upon his entrance was pointedly ignored as he looked about, striding up to the stage. The ghost of himself playing on that stage only earlier tonight and the phantom echo of music crept along his leather-clad skin as he deftly avoided the up-ended chairs stacked on their respective tables when he found the stage devoid of his guitar.

Megamind cast his gaze about, a weight settling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't here. She'd taken it with her. As a last ditch effort, he hopped the countertop and landed behind the registers. There, like a beacon of white against the dark cork board, was a scrap of paper with the word "Six" written in Roxanne's distinctive handwriting.

He pulled the scrap off the board, pushing the pin back into the cork absently. The paper unfolded, it read: "'Six,' I was advised against leaving your guitar here. The thought of you not being able to play it again doesn't sit well with me, because you're exceptionally talented. Call me and we'll set up a meeting and get this wonderful instrument back to you. Thank you for the impromptu concert you put on tonight. I really did enjoy it. -Roxanne." There was a phone number below it.

Megamind rolled back on his heels, leaning against the wall as he read the note twice more, questions swirling through his mind. She had thanked him. Enjoyed his performance. Wanted to see him again, even if it was just to give his guitar back. A single blip of apprehension made itself known: he'd never actually spoken to anyone who'd heard him play, Minion notwithstanding. Minion had heard him when he was still learning to play. How embarrassing.

But Roxanne had heard him play. And liked it. And now, she had his guitar. Would she like it if he played something again? Butterflies settled in his stomach, dislodging the lump of rock that had been there since he'd seen her looking forlornly out onto the campus, his guitar slung gently across her back. He scowled, tucking the note in his pocket.

"Enough of this nonsense," he said to himself, shaking his head free of distracting thoughts. "I'm getting the Guitar of Supreme Tyranny back tonight."

Decided, he strode out of the darkened coffee shoppe, locking it behind him, and went back the way he came. The hover bike roared to life as he sped off into the sky.

The city was surprisingly quiet for a beautiful night such as this one, he thought as he cruised the skies, making a bee-line for Miss Ritchie's apartment block downtown. It took him only a few minutes at speed, and then it was in sight. Megamind landed the bike gracefully on the rooftop, the garden built there serving to hide the flying vehicle. He climbed down the fire escape and hopped neatly onto the corner apartment's patio.

Megamind froze at the sight that greeted him. There, on the couch inside her apartment, Roxanne was sound asleep, her arm flung haphazardly over her eyes, her mouth open on a light snore. On the other end of the couch, propping up her crossed feet on his tree-trunk-thick thighs, was none other than Metro Man. The villain blinked. It had been a long time since he'd seen the hero in street clothes.

He never thought he'd see the scene before him. Such casual affection granted and accepted, the hero's hand settled so casually on the reporter's ankles. A well of envy bubbled up from somewhere long closed off. Megamind never expected to have such a luxury.

He tore his eyes away from the distressing picture they made, casting about the apartment while trying to stick to the shadows. There, on her kitchen nook counter, was the missing guitar. He took a step forward, almost involuntarily, and found himself in plain view. Metro Man's eyes were on him almost immediately.

Megamind watched, frozen, as Metro Man slowly stood, retrieving a pillow to prop Roxanne's crossed legs upon so that she would not be disturbed. He draped a blanket over her somnolent form, and hit the remote to turn the television off.

In the next instant, thanks to Metro Man's super speed, he found himself pinned bodily against the brick wall surrounding Roxanne's balcony, a meaty hand encircling his delicate neck.

"What the hell do you think you're doing on her balcony at this time of night? You know the rules!" Wayne said angrily. Megamind gagged, the hero's grip just this side of too tight. Wayne loosened the hold almost apologetically, and Megamind coughed, clearing his throat. He glared at the hero.

"I wasn't breaking any rules!" Megamind insisted in response. "I came to get something that belongs to me, hero. Simple retrieval."

"What could possibly be in her apartment that belongs to you?" Megamind couldn't help his eyes straying to the instrument on Roxanne's counter top. Metro Man's gaze followed, and he set the villain back on his feet, stunned. "No way," Wayne breathed. "That beauty is yours?" Megamind simply glared at him defiantly, pulling futilely at the hand that still held him in place. "I didn't credit you for actually having an eye for style," he said with a smirk.

"My style is impeccable," Megamind growled, his lower lip jutting.

"Impeccably bad," Wayne shot back.

"Precisely," he hissed, a dark smile breaking through.

Wayne stared at his rival for a moment, his verdant eyes fairly glowing in the night. He sighed, and lifted off, taking the villain with him. Megamind let out an indignant squawk, losing his footing, kicked out quickly, trying to right himself. "Hush up, you'll wake Roxie. You'll have to try again for it next time you break out of prison, Blue."

"Don't call me that," he snapped, then sighed, resigned.

He was back in prison within the quarter hour, and had plotted his next breakout by dawn.


End file.
